One Flew Over the Bat's Cave
by Inuvik
Summary: No matter how hard the Batman tries to save Gotham, craziness always sneaks in the city, and sometimes, from the strangest places. What can a trained ninja do when all hell breaks loose around him? Pitch in, and try to stay sane. Or not. The Penguin, the Riddler, Dr. Chase Meridian. Alfred, of course. Set between TDK and TDKR.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Here is a nursery rhyme for the story:_

"Tingle, ting-le, tang-le toes,

she's a good fisherman, catches hens, puts 'em inna pens...

wire blier, limber lock, three geese in a flock,

one flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo's nest...

O-U-T- spells out...goose swoops down and plucks you out."

* * *

_**One flew over the bat's cave**_

_Chapter One_

* * *

"Are you sure about this?"

"Contrary to what one might think, staying passive has never been my cup of tea. And as all my more gentle strategies have failed, I see no other choice."

"There will be some collateral damage."

"Carefully analyzed and deemed acceptable considering the situation."

There was a pause. A sigh. Heavy. Conveying despair and displeasure too.

"Never imagined you could be that..."

"Cynical?"

"I was thinking about manipulative."

"Well... desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Indeed." Another sigh. "All right. I'm in."

* * *

A soft rustling of wings over his head slowly stirred Bruce out of a dreamless sleep, like the distant alarm of a car: impossible to ignore, and yet, as difficult to localize as a gust of wind.

Stiff, Bruce straightened up in his chair, and stared at the complete darkness surrounding him with the confusion of someone waking up not knowing where he was nor the time of the day or of the night, until the bat anchored his mind in the cave.

_Why are the lights off?_ he wondered as he yawned.

For a moment, he stayed still, hesitating between going up to finish his night or resume analyzing the chip from the Penguin's henchman's cellphone, but Alfred's last biting comment, that to wake up the wrong side of the bed implied that one had to wake up in bed in the first place, sounded in his mind, and convinced him to call a break for the night. If it was still night. Something that his gurgling stomach now doubted.

Bruce massaged his sore neck and rolled his head to relax his tense muscles before rising to his feet. Just as he unfolded to his full six foot three, the two stitches on his scalp caused his hand to promptly lift over his head to keep from crashing his skull against the rough, low ceiling of the chamber. It was a small natural cavity, nested higher in the cave and almost impossible to access, for Alfred at least, but since the last April flood, it sheltered his equipment.

The darkness did not bother Bruce as he walked toward the exit. He was used to making his way back to the manor half asleep, or maybe he just had grown himself some sonar. Wings could be fun too. He should ask Lucius about it later.

By the time he reached the cascade, his sight had accustomed to the dark, and Bruce sped up his pace a little when he realized that in fact, a faint daylight filtered overhead. So his stomach was right. He had skipped breakfast. The only point that needed further clarification now was had he missed lunch too.

Bruce raked a hand through his hair. That was annoying. Alfred was touchy lately about his erratic schedule, saying something about getting himself a gastric ulcer, though he was not sure about who his old friend was talking about.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to ease a rising headache, Bruce opened the elevator's grid, stepped on the platform, and pressed on the up button.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, he pressed his thumb on the button again. And again. Once more...

Irritated, Bruce stepped out, moved around the cage toward the fuse box, and, in the half darkness opened the oblong panel. Then, he brushed each switch to find which one had tripped. He did it once. Twice. And once more.

Everything was in order.

A power failure then?

Bruce's brow furrowed as he stepped backward a little and raised his eyes toward the study. For a brief moment he considered about using the elevator's cable network to reach it hand over hand, but he discarded the plan. In the improbable case of an electricity shutdown, he had built a safe guard to keep the bookshelf locked, so his secret would stay a secret.

And occasionally trap him. But that was an unfortunate, unforeseen collateral damage of course.

Bruce muttered a curse. The irony of the situation did not escape him. Well, he guessed that he was in for some spelunking. And after all, a morning jog through the forest would not harm him.

Ignoring the vehement complaint of his stomach and his stiff legs, Bruce jumped down the catwalk and made his way in thigh-deep waters toward the cascade. As he reached it, he briefly paused below to allow the cool waters to shake off all remaining sleep from his body and mind alike. Now reinvigorated, he swam across the submerged fault, and began to climb his way up on the moss-covered rocks that the top usually served as a springboard for the Tumbler. The difference was, he told himself, that when he was sitting behind the wheel, he did not have to cope with the swarms of mosquitoes and other flying or crawling insects that inhabited the damp place. Thank god he was not scared of spiders and snakes. Bats had taken all the room available for phobias in his mind.

About half an hour later, Bruce opened the kitchen's door with a relief that Alfred's glare beheaded. Stopping dead in his tracks, he looked at his feet, and saw the mud covering his quilted pants. And his arms. And... damn.

"I... I was stuck in the-" Bruce slapped his neck with his hand at a sudden sting.

"You know where to find the hose, master Wayne," the old butler said, resuming drying the dishes.

"Er... sure, Alfred. Sorry."

Like one would do in front of a grizzly, Bruce cautiously moved backward, and closed the door without a sound. Then, letting out a real sigh of relief, he walked around the bushes flourishing at the corner of the manor, and headed toward the greenhouse.

While Bruce washed the mud off of his legs and arms with cold water, his mind drifted back on the Penguin's mystery. Until last night, his very existence was only in the words of the criminals. The man had no substance, save the one of fear maybe. The thugs he cornered the last month had all told him they preferred to die by his hand rather than by the Penguin's. The fact that people believed he could kill was still intact - he always was the scapegoat of the brutal, mysterious disappearances of everyday common thieves - but he had lost the top rating in their Richter Scale. And that was disturbing to say the least.

If only he could sneak inside the criminal world like before, he could resolve this problem faster. But that was not an option anymore. The murder of the last man Gordon had infiltrated proved who ever hid behind this weird nickname was well informed.

Well connected, Bruce concluded as he rolled the hose back in its wall support.

Realizing that he could no more enter in the manor dripping water than mud, he walked out in the garden, winged his shirt, and stayed under the bright sun to dry himself. It was a very hot day in mid-July, and after a couple of minutes, the rays scorching his skin convinced him to try his chance in the kitchen again.

His shoulders slightly tense, Bruce walked in for the second time, and without crossing Alfred's glance, he headed to the refrigerator. Having drunk nothing else than Red Bulls since he had come back home around two am, he took out the orange juice, and, knowing better than to yield to an urge to drink straight from the bottle, he walked toward the cupboard.

"Thanks," he said to Alfred who handed him a glass. "There's something to eat somewhere?"

"In the microwave. Be careful not to burn yourself."

Bruce turned around and frowned upon catching sight of the time on the microwave control screen. Half past three? Already? At least the power was back. He would have eaten cold anyway. Too hungry to be picky.

"What's the smell?"

"Must be the garlic, sir."

"Garlic?"

As he took his plate of filet of duck breasts with rice and mushrooms with a towel, Bruce raised his eyes and saw a garland of garlic suspended to the cupboard above the microwave. Intrigued, his eyes scanned the kitchen as he turned around and headed toward the table. Bruce frowned. There was another garland suspended above the sink, one above the outside door, and three hung to the ceiling light.

"Are you testing some decoration for the next Halloween?"

"No, not decoration, master Wayne. Protection."

Bruce's eyes grew wide. Master Wayne? In the kitchen?

What's bitten him? He wondered as Alfred sat down on a barstool with a glass of fresh water, at a good distance of him.

"Protection against what?" he asked, scratching an irritating, swelling spot on his neck. Unfortunately, Bruce knew what had bitten him.

"Well... you sleep all day in a cave; only get out by the end of the afternoon or by night." Alfred shifted on his seat and set his piercing blue eyes on him. "Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, Master Wayne?"

Bruce almost let down his fork. "And do you also keep a stake?" he muttered before resuming eating his late lunch or early supper.

To his great surprise, Alfred raised a hand and patted his waistcoat over his heart. "Better stay on the cautious side."

Bruce's eyes widened. He was searching what to retort when a soft buzz sounded.

"Sorry, sir," Alfred said, stepping away to take the call. "Yes, Lucius, he is here... In forty minutes. A problem? I'll make it thirty then."

Bruce, who also patted his pockets to find his cellphone - he must have forgotten it in the cave - felt his shoulders sink. Midtown in half an hour? What could have happened to require his presence at the headquarters so fast?

Nothing good...

Quickly, he swallowed a couple of mouthfuls before standing up.

"You understood, sir?"

"Loud and clear. I'm just going to take a quick shower. Won't be long," he told Alfred as his rushed out of the kitchen.

"Master Wayne?"

Shoulders tensing by Alfred's insistence of maintaining a perfect etiquette, Bruce stopped on the door frame and craned his neck in time to see something flying toward him. A small pressurized bottle landed in his right hand.

"You have a beginning of a third degree burn on your neck."

"No burn, Alfred, mosquitoes. Huge, bloodthirsty mosquitoes," he replied, sending the after sun burn spray back to his old friend before walking away.

"At least it proves warm blood still floods in your veins!"

In the hall, Bruce chuckled at Alfred's quip, and promptly clenched his teeth not to yield to a violent urge to scratch his neck and arms.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Bruce was sitting at the rear of the Rolls, reading the _Gotham_ _Globe and Mail_ international section on his IPad while Alfred drove him through an unusually dense traffic jam for the hour, at least in uptown direction. Though he was too annoyed by Vicky's last article on the suspicion of favoritism concerning the attribution of London's mayoral campaign to a communication firm owned by acquaintances of his closest councilor, to care for their slow motion. Whatever the continent she was on, she kept on digging the dirt.

"You should listen to this, master Bruce," Alfred said, increasing the radio's volume.

Intrigued, Bruce raised his head from the tablet and crossed Alfred's worried glance in the mirror.

"_... a SWAT unit has arrived... by the crowded pack on the sidewalk and even the street, it looks like the whole building has been evacuated."_

_"Paul? Have the firefighters confirmed that there is a fire?"_

_"No, Joan, and we still do not see any smoke, but that doesn't mean anything because all the windows are usually kept locked in such building. Wait... there is a sudden agitation in the crowd. Joan? It seems that the police are investing the place as I speak... I'm going to try to get closer, but it's not easy moving around here. There's a huge traffic jam; best to advise the drivers to avoid this sector."_

_"Thank you, Paul, we're waiting to learn what is happening. Just for now, it seems a fire is happening in Gotham Bank's headquarters forcing the evacuation of the employees. If you still have a choice, you might prefer avoiding Uptown between the first and third avenues for the next couple of hours."_

Bruce looked outside for the street sign and sighed. Too late.

Lucius was not going to be happy, he briefly thought before he focused back on his reading. In a corner of his mind he made himself a note to check with Gordon about the bank, though it might turn out being nothing more than a distracted employee burning down a donut in the cafeteria microwave.

Almost half an hour behind schedule, Alfred drove the Rolls into the Wayne Tower underground parking lot, and stopped near the elevators.

Now used to playing an infirm, Bruce seized his cane and extricated himself with just enough difficulty from his seat to attract attention to his disability, but not enough to be granted a helping hand by a good Samaritan. A tricky balance he had finally managed to achieve to avoid feeling helplessly pitiful the rare times he got out of the manor in his business suit.

"Could you keep an ear on what's going on at the bank?" he asked Alfred, keeping his voice low so it would not echo between the concrete walls.

"Of course, sir. I'll be waiting for you here."

"Thank you."

After exchanging a knowing look, Bruce pivoted on his heels and limped toward the elevator.

The bell rang just as he stretched his hand to press on the call button. The doors opened and unleashed a swarm of employees. Bruce hastily stepped aside to avoid being knocked down. Though some of the people warmly acknowledged his presence by saluting him, he also noticed a couple of killing glances from women. More dubious than hurt, Bruce stepped in the wooden cabin with mirrors, and used his key to override the elevator to make it climb to the thirty-fifth level without stopping.

A couple of minutes later, the doors opened. Bruce walked out, and at his usual, limping, snail pace – if a snail can limp - he made his way through the Human Resources department.

Richard's secretary was still behind her desk, and he saluted her behind the glass doors of her office. From the corner of the eye, he saw a brief, crooked smile appear on the plump, little woman's face before she promptly focused back on her computer screen. Bruce's eyebrow arched out of surprise. Behind her specs, Miss Shlager never smiled.

Maybe it was a wince? She could have strained her neck by raising her head too fast, he thought as he entered the CEO's office without knocking, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Despite the cool conditioned air, his palm became clammy in response to Lucius's glare.

Bruce groaned, turned back, closed the door, and knocked. What was going on today?

"Enter, Mr. Wayne," he heard Lucius' grave voice say.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fox. How are you?" Bruce asked, not able to keep a slight cocky tone in his voice.

"I am perfectly fine, thank you. You may take a seat. I'll be with you in one moment." Lucius said, not raising his head from his computer even a second.

Bruce shrugged, noticing that Lucius had not returned the courtesy to ask him how he felt today. Why did he have the feeling of being six years old? That was absurd. Irritated, he limped toward the black leather chair in front of the CEO's vast mahogany desk, and sat, just as he had been asked.

Granted a privilege.

Ordered.

"I'm sorry," Lucius said, taking out his specs from his nose and putting them down before stretching back in his armchair. "So, Mr. Way-" Lucius frowned and craned his head with concern. "Did you lie in a poison ivy bed last night?"

Bruce frowned too before catching that Lucius was inquiring about his neck. "Oh! That. No. Just met some ferocious mosquitoes. You told Alfred there was an urgent matter to discuss," Bruce asked with a wince. Thanks to Lucius' reminder, he was scratching again.

"Urgent? I did say that indeed."

Bruce shifted on his chair, uneasy to see his old partner setting his gaze back on his screen, distant. Hesitant?

"Something wrong, Mr. Fox?"

"I'd like you to tell me, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce gasped. What was this play?

Just as he was about to ask again with a more serious tone to his voice what was going on, Lucius pivoted his computer screen so he could see what was displayed.

Bruce frowned as it took him a second to recognize the blue banner. "You called me to talk about my Facebook page?"

Since when do I have a Facebook page? His brow furrowed deeper. "W-wait a second," he snapped, coming closer to the screen to examine his picture.

Oh yes, he remembered now. But that was in another life, when he was a student at Princeton, ten years ago! He had all but forgotten about it. Never been interested in having virtual friends or go on about his life on internet. How was it still active?

"I looked young," he said, shrugging. What was he supposed to say?

"May I suggest you look not at your perfect, juvenile figure but at what is written beneath?"

Annoyed, Bruce got closer and, with a heavy sigh – he really had other things to do - he focused on the page again.

If he had been drinking at that moment, everything would have snorted through his nose at the sight of his last status.

"Will you all STOP laughing at ME! Think I can't hear you giggling behind my back? MORONS! Except you, Peggy... your cute little ass on my lap again and again... last night had a taste of heaven babe."

"Did I write that?" Bruce asked, shocked by the lines. Damn! He must have been quite sloshed that night "Look, Lucius, send this to Alexander Knox, I'm sure he'll know what to do with it, but why are you bothering me with something I might have written twelve years ago after a student party I have absolutely no memories about?"

"Check the date again. Please."

Bruce shuddered at Lucius' freezing tone and raised his eyes one more time on the page.

Yesterday?! What?!

"I never wrote this, I swear!" he cried as he leaped on his feet before an invisible, powerful force swept his legs and caused him to sink into the chair. Now that explained Miss Shlager's smile and the other women's angry stares.

"What's my secretary's name?" he asked with a wince before muttering a curse.

The woman was going to sue him for sexual harassment for sure... if this was a joke, it was not funny at all.

Jaw clenched, he watched Lucius intensively, trying to detect a bead of sweat pearling on his forehead, a smirk on his lips, a sparkle in his dark eyes. Anything that indicated that he was the one responsible for this mess. But no. There was nothing else except annoyance. Not even eagerness to see him leave. No. Not Lucius. Alfred then? Yeah. It must be Alfred. Bruce discarded the thought. Alfred still read his newspaper in paper edition. Who then? Knox? That looked like him indeed, creating an affair to laugh on his behalf. Whoever had done this was going to pay, he swore.

"I suggest you write a correction asap-"

"I'll do better. I'm going to deactivate-" Bruce replied just as the fire alarm blew off.

While Lucius picked up his phone, Bruce stood up, limped toward the door, and craned his neck into the corridor. Usually, a fire exercise was done in the morning when all the employees were present. Not after four on a Friday afternoon. Probably a false alarm. Though with the labs in engineering on the fifteenth floor, one could never be sure.

"I can't reach the front desk nor the security. Let's go."

"Richard's secretary was still there when I came," Bruce said, pointing to Lucius that he was going to circle the floor from the right. "Let's meet in front of the stairwell."

A couple of minutes later, Bruce pushed the exit door, and followed by Lucius, Miss Shlager and an accountant. After convincing the two employees to rush down without waiting for him, he stayed behind with Lucius and checked floor after floor, asking the few employees who were still there if there was any fire at their level. When all said no, he stopped Lucius.

"It's a false alarm. The same thing happened to Gotham Bank." Bruce took a deep breath before adding with a low voice: "A part of the manor went into lock-down this morning."

Bruce winced as he said those last words and he read in Lucius' eyes that he had understood to which part of the mansion he referred to.

"A bug in our new security AI?" the CEO asked, concern in his voice.

"Three incidents within a couple of hours... that doesn't look good to me."

Bruce let out a deep sigh. "Lucius, could you have the team involved in the development of the AI called for a crisis bridge on the phone asap. I want answers fast. What?"

"I have no doubt that the CEO calling them would have quite an effect, but it's the director's role to manage these kind of crises."

"Who took Nashton's place?"

"It must be you."

"What?" Bruce frowned, confused.

"Since Nashton resigned, you are de facto director," Lucius replied with a smile, patting him on the shoulder before heading back to the stairwell.

As the door shut closed, Bruce let out a very deep sigh, feeling as if a block of concrete had just crashed on him. Where was his secretary when he needed her? He wondered, bitter, as he took out his phone.

"Alfred? Don't wait for me," he said, crestfallen.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Bruce was sitting behind his desk, trying to follow two threads of conversations on two phones when his door opened and Peggy Ashcove entered like a gust of wind.

Oh. No. Knox was going to pay, now that was certain. His only thin hope was that she was currently still married and so, not in the hunt, he thought as he checked that he was on mute on each call.

"You never knock before coming in?" He snapped. There was only one way to deal with Miss Ashcove if you wanted to escape her grasp: be disagreeable. And even then, you were never sure if you'd escape without her still hanging onto a piece of your flesh.

"Why?" she asked as she sat down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk, crossing her legs in a movement that showed more of her thighs than he cared to see, at least for the time being.

"Because it's what educated people do before entering an office." Thank God Lucius was not here to hear him.

"I mean why have you written this?"

"Oh. That?"

"Yes, that,"

"Someone hacked my account. I didn't do it."

"You really think you'll get away like that? What a disappointment."

"It's the truth. Take it or leave it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an emergency on my hands."

"I wanted to apologize."

That froze Bruce. Gasping, he stared at, her wondering where was the catch.

"We did not behave as friends toward you."

_Not that I wished_, Bruce thought while she added:

"Leaving you alone while-"

"Peggy. Your concerns touch me, really, but I must focus on what is-"

"Is this the voice of that old lech of a Cobblepot?"

Bruce could not keep himself from sending a panicked glance to his phone to check again that it was on mute before blowing out a sigh in which his relief and his irritation shortened his patience.

"You know where the exit is, Peggy."

"I don't intend to leave until you've heard me. Brucie."

Bruce felt his teeth grind, and his brow furrowed with a dark intensity that he usually unleashed only when wearing the Batman's mask when he heard his name being called with the insistence of someone trying to get your attention for quite some time.

"Er... yes."

"Great. Be there at seven then," Cobblepot's nasal voice said.

The Prince of Gotham's eyes widened out of dread.

"Could you give me the address?" he asked, trying not to look embarrassed.

"My secretary will send it to you. I'm looking forward to seeing you tonight."

"So do I," he lied just as the communication cut, leaving him wondering what had just happened.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at Peggy Ashcove who seemed engaged in a staring contest with her pocket mirror.

_May the mirror win_, he thought, hearing Rachel's sarcasms in his head. Damn! He should have stayed in his cave...

* * *

_AN: Reviews are always welcomed :) _


	2. Chapter 2

_**One flew over the Bat's cave**_

_**Chapter 2**_

* * *

_Allegro non troppo_. In the main theater of Buenos Aires' conservatory of music, Elgar's sonata in E minor's last movement rose in a light, animated sequence, taking flight like a flock of small birds in a spring sky.

On the stage, next to the piano, Professor Dieter Henmacht's agile fingers moved with a greater speed and empathy on the violin's neck while his archer delicately produced crystalline notes, triggering smiles and opening the assistant's eyes wide out of blissful admiration.

But Henmacht – Lawton by his real name - knew that the audience, no matter how educated it was, would ill-interpret Elgar's frame of mind on the basis that the composer had lost the dear lady friend for whom he composed the piece before it was even finished, and felt in the last bars sadness and pain.

It was however all the opposite.

Elgar, having fled London and the mortifying shadows of the first world war atrocities, was in fact feeling, in his cottage at Brinkwells, at peace for the first time in years. And so the end of the sonata breathed the fresh, soothing atmosphere of the woodlands surrounding him at the time. He had accepted death, his own in particular, as part of life.

A roaring applause burst as the final crescendo ended in a stormy conclusion.

While the young pianist next to him was trying to regain his senses after the tremendous effort of concentration the piece required, Lawton stood up, bowed dryly, and walked out of the room before people would invade the corridor in an attempt to exchange a few words with him. He despised the contact with the people and certainly did not wish to hear their compliments. These socialite formalities were a loss of his precious time.

A couple of minutes later, Lawton silently closed the door of his office behind him and locked it. A quick but sharp glance at the door frame told him that no intruder had taken advantage of the performance to sneak in by the door. The method of placing hairs at strategic places was maybe a little old, but it still worked. Without putting down his violin, he headed without a sound on a cracking hard floor toward the only sash-window. There again, he retrieved the hair with satisfaction.

Lawton allowed himself to relax and take care of his violin. But he did not. His cellphone had just buzzed the first notes of Shumann's Toccata op7.

A carnivorous smile and sparks in the eyes suddenly animated Lawton's stern face. Delicately, he put down his instrument in its case, sat down at his desk, and flattened his left palm under the ebony top. At once, the detector analyzed his fingerprints and the morphology of his skin. A soft click sounded. He then slid open the hidden panel and retrieved his professional laptop.

The service demand stunned Lawton, who read it twice before sinking in his armchair to think.

First, the amount exceeded everything he had ever witnessed so far. And knowing that he was already one of the most expensive guns in the market, to say the price shocked him was really saying something. And secondly, usually when one was ready to pay that much, he also asked to make the body disappear without trace, disguise the murder into an accident, or also to ensure that somebody else would be accused. Here it was not the case.

Fifty millions dollars to deliver the target alive...

After a few, long minutes, a vicious smirk distorted Lawton's mouth.

All things considered, he would do this contract just for the prestige and the challenge. Something he thrilled more than money.

And anyway, the Penguin had not said that he had to deliver the Batman unhurt.

_AN: I know I'm twisting Deathstroke and Deadshot here, but I do it because I think the metahuman thing is not very Nolan-verse._

_Sir Edward Elgar (1857-1934), British composer._


End file.
